Somewhere at the Back
- Details
- Written November 2019
After the long journey of exploration
Moving forward, compelled by obedience
And a hunch there was something better ahead.
Now finding the way through overcrowded aisles,
Dodging fairy lights flashing on artificial snow
Keeping time with music canned for popularity,
But jarring the hearing of a wise man seeking peace,
As he braves the uncertainty of a country’s future
And extinction rebels' warning of trouble ahead.
So they follow the star to the shed behind,
Where they find hope born afresh,
With love stirring within those gazing
On the new-born, sleeping in a cardboard box.
Written after visiting a busy garden centre in Bournemouth
Advent 2019
Making Peace in a Violent World
- Details
- Written August 2017
Reflection on several scenarios of violence in our world
Down My Road
I'm willing to pass by on the other side
Like a priest or a Levite,
Though I say let them die with him,
We'd be better off without them,
But the man from Nazareth in Galilee
Tells a story about the Jericho road
And the stranger from Samaria
Who moves into the story
To become his hero and mine,
Though the man on the side of my road
Still lies wounded, unless I do my bit
By walking out of the story to care for him
And make peace with priest and Levite.
After all I'm both of them myself.
(Some scholars accuse the gospel writer, Luke, of anti-semitism.)
The Anatomy of Difference
My tribe; my clan; my people and me;
Our faith, our denomination, our church;
Let us be on top,
After all, we've been robbed:
Our lands, our country, our way of life,
They're advancing, we're not.
Muslim from the north,
Christian from the south,
Catholic here, Protestant there,
One's very liberal, the other evangelical.
These differences give me a headache.
Can we not just live together?
I long for the days when peace reigned
And for when it will be restored.
(Inter-religious conflict)
Brotherly Love
Same mother, same father,
Brothers from the same womb,
Yet sons of thunder
And not for nothing they called us that.
Envy in rivalry; one up, the other higher,
Each looking for the approval of another,
Like Cain and Abel, Ishmael and Isaac,
Jacob and Esau; Joseph and his brothers.
One has to be first, the other second,
So let one be on the left, the other the right
Of the peacemaker,
Though I hope he doesn't treat us equally
Because I don't care for peace with surrender
So let strife continue.
(Some describe Israeli-Palestinian conflict as sibling rivalry)
Partition
Blame the British - they drew a line on the map,
Now translated onto soil and rocks, lands and fields
That became the mayhem of us and them
Slaughtered in the slash and grab of looting,
Our blood and theirs soaking the soils of earth
So that the stories are told and retold
Of who did this and who did that,
Or what the Prophet or Shiva,
Let alone the Galilean might say
About us, locked in the hatred of history,
Wanting to outwit each other
As we stare across a border
Naked eye, or through a gun-sight
Levelling up a cousin before pulling the trigger.
(The legacy of the 1948 partition of India and Pakistan lingers)
The Gang
Alone, and bored out of my mind,
So give me the excitement of the streets.
Dad played cowboys and Indians;
We go for the real stuff,
Dagger in the back pocket
Looking after each other,
Protecting our turf,
Until the law catches up with us
And I find myself behind bars,
Lucky to be alive
But getting ready for more.
Or is it time for me
To make peace with myself
And chat to dad about cowboys and Indians?
(Street gangs and knife-crime – what can we do about it?)
Death in the Family
He prefers another man;
She loves a woman -
Ultimate abomination of privacy!
Our scriptures seem to condemn it
And therefore them,
So uphold the sentence,
Apply the death penalty;
Get rid of him -
There's one less of them around.
But my peace of mind is disturbed
As I mourn his passing in silence
For he's my son,
So I need to go back to the Book
Seeking comfort and a better way.
(Violence against LGBTIA people remains significant,
and especially in the 72 states classified as 'criminalising')
August 2017
Down My Road
I'm willing to pass by on the other side
Like a priest or a Levite,
Though I say let them die with him,
We'd be better off without them,
But the man from Nazareth in Galilee
Tells a story about the Jericho road
And the stranger from Samaria
Who moves into the story
To become his hero and mine,
Though the man on the side of my road
Still lies wounded, unless I do my bit
By walking out of the story to care for him
And make peace with priest and Levite.
After all I'm both of them myself.
(Some scholars accuse the gospel writer, Luke, of anti-semitism.)
The Anatomy of Difference
My tribe; my clan; my people and me;
Our faith, our denomination, our church;
Let us be on top,
After all, we've been robbed:
Our lands, our country, our way of life,
They're advancing, we're not.
Muslim from the north,
Christian from the south,
Catholic here, Protestant there,
One's very liberal, the other evangelical.
These differences give me a headache.
Can we not just live together?
I long for the days when peace reigned
And for when it will be restored.
(Inter-religious conflict)
Brotherly Love
Same mother, same father,
Brothers from the same womb,
Yet sons of thunder
And not for nothing they called us that.
Envy in rivalry; one up, the other higher,
Each looking for the approval of another,
Like Cain and Abel, Ishmael and Isaac,
Jacob and Esau; Joseph and his brothers.
One has to be first, the other second,
So let one be on the left, the other the right
Of the peacemaker,
Though I hope he doesn't treat us equally
Because I don't care for peace with surrender
So let strife continue.
(Some describe Israeli-Palestinian conflict as sibling rivalry)
Partition
Blame the British - they drew a line on the map,
Now translated onto soil and rocks, lands and fields
That became the mayhem of us and them
Slaughtered in the slash and grab of looting,
Our blood and theirs soaking the soils of earth
So that the stories are told and retold
Of who did this and who did that,
Or what the Prophet or Shiva,
Let alone the Galilean might say
About us, locked in the hatred of history,
Wanting to outwit each other
As we stare across a border
Naked eye, or through a gun-sight
Levelling up a cousin before pulling the trigger.
(The legacy of the 1948 partition of India and Pakistan lingers)
The Gang
Alone, and bored out of my mind,
So give me the excitement of the streets.
Dad played cowboys and Indians;
We go for the real stuff,
Dagger in the back pocket
Looking after each other,
Protecting our turf,
Until the law catches up with us
And I find myself behind bars,
Lucky to be alive
But getting ready for more.
Or is it time for me
To make peace with myself
And chat to dad about cowboys and Indians?
(Street gangs and knife-crime – what can we do about it?)
Death in the Family
He prefers another man;
She loves a woman -
Ultimate abomination of privacy!
Our scriptures seem to condemn it
And therefore them,
So uphold the sentence,
Apply the death penalty;
Get rid of him -
There's one less of them around.
But my peace of mind is disturbed
As I mourn his passing in silence
For he's my son,
So I need to go back to the Book
Seeking comfort and a better way.
(Violence against LGBTIA people remains significant,
and especially in the 72 states classified as 'criminalising')
August 2017
Dust and Ashes
- Details
- Written June 2016
Its ECG in free fall of the stock market;
Run on the pound precipitating cardiac arrest
Requiring resuscitation and new life
Kick-starting faith that we're in good hands;
Hope and expectation of a fresh beginning
That can't be made alone.
The stethoscope is silent in the stillness of death
So tap the diaphragm just to make sure
Life has ceased, with the thud of earth
Muffled drum resounding round the grave
Until quiet ash and gentle dust settle,
And we rest in peace until the dawn
And find we are together again.
June 2016
Written the day after the result of the outcome of the EU referendum
On the Street
- Details
- Written September 2016
By gathering up other people's droppings -
Of cardboard boxes, plastic bottles,
Left-over packaging in cellophane wrapping;
Tin cans and bottle tops;
Just a mouthful of tuna-mayo left
In a polystyrene box with a fast food spoon;
A tiny torch, a cigarette lighter,
Crusts left by the crows who dragged them there -
Amateur garbage-collector, gone with the wind.
Shining canisters of legal highs,
The smallest sliver of roadside silver
Go for it - glistening needles in the haystack;
ATM receipts and lottery cards,
Last week's newspaper with celebrity gossip -
Evidence of yesterday's world
Jettisoned by humanity with crocodile tears
Dried out on dried up wet-wipes;
Crumpled up tissues with goodness knows what
Picked up for a big black refuse bag.
Cigarette stubs and bottled soda,
Pooh-sacs filled and others empty,
Half-degraded plastic bags nibbled by rats
Joining forces with foxes, scavenging
When not chased by hounds and horns;
This one tidying up that one's mess,
Not the work of a fine-facing fly-tipper
Halfway to the dump, but tossed on the road,
By thoughtless litter-bugs
Scattering their disposables for the likes of him.
Eden restored by a sophisticated road-sweeper
The street sanctified to its finger-licking best.
There he goes again - Mr Goodie-Goodie
Back with an eye for what's out of place,
Living with castaways, outcasts, unwanted,
The downtrodden. There'll be more tomorrow,
Tin cans of other people's mess
Flattened under foot, though withholding blame;
Accepted, but wishing it wasn't like this,
Though he should get home to wash the dishes.
September 2016
Roman 8: 18-23
Water Lilies
- Details
- Written February 2016
Flattened to show what's not yet there;
Hazy impressions daubed onto a background
Of reflections from the garden surrounds,
Firing rods and cones with imagination,
That tells the occipital cortex to wake up
And stir memories stored in grey matter,
Dormant in the winter of increasing years,
Waiting for daffodils to trumpet
The arrival of a February spring.
But instead crocuses open under a winter sun
Floating above a January dawn.
While we are indoors, transfixed by nymphaea,
Revealing what was always there.
On seeing Monet's water lilies, Royal Academy of Arts, London
February 2016